


Cleanup

by touchkissbite



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Armpit Kink, Body Worship, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Face-Sitting, Forniphilia, Human Furniture, Humiliation, Incest, Large Cock, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Raunch, Scat, Verbal Humiliation, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:17:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchkissbite/pseuds/touchkissbite
Summary: The Sheriff goes through a rough transition after his wife's death; an innocent habit with his son grows to become something darker. Warnings in the tags. Please let me know what you think!





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first work so I hope you all enjoy and give me some feedback!! Smut will be coming soon. First chapter is really just an introduction. Let me know if you have any ideas/comments/requests or send them over at touchkissbite-ao3.tumblr.com

If John had to pinpoint exactly when this all started, he’d probably say it was when Stiles was just starting to go to school. They’d chat every day about what Stiles learned and how his day had been; John and his boy had been splitting a bar of chocolate while they made idle talk about the joys of kindergarten. The boy had an insatiable sweet tooth and John simply couldn’t deny him such things when he looked at him with those big shining eyes. So when Stiles had discovered the chocolate was gone and requested he be allowed to lick the last bits of it from John’s fingers, he couldn’t tell him no. The sheriff had expected discomfort from such a strange act but as his son’s lips wrapped around his thumb, he was pleasantly surprised at the normalcy of it. It was just like washing his own hands, he remarked as he examined the now squeaky clean finger. That was when he’d begun to allow Stiles to clean food from his hands; but things soon escalated.

 

Within months, despite Claudia’s squeamishness at the idea, Stiles insisted he help clean his father after a long day. John promised her every night he would wean the boy from licking his hands clean or removing his dirty socks for him, but he never seemed to be able to start the process.

 

And then Claudia died.

 

After the death the Sheriff took to the bottle quickly. They continued their routine every day after school as the Sheriff lost his motivation and along with it, his promise to Claudia that he’d stop. Soon Stiles replaced his usual post-work cleanup, licking his hands clean and removing his dirty uniform. He’d be told to go do his homework as John, sitting in his briefs at the kitchen table, broke the seal on a fresh bottle of whiskey. Things stayed like this for a long while. But when they changed, there was no going back.

 

It was a bad day for John. The anniversary of his first date with Claudia, a parolee of his running from the law, a mountain of work and an exhausting day spent at a crime scene in the nearby desert. His mind was filled with demons he was too tired to fight. And so when he had stepped through the door, tracking dust over the linoleum floor, he didn’t have even the energy to help Stiles out as the kid yapped about his day in school. He had long ago abandoned participating in these discussions. Nowadays he simply waited as Stiles stripped his uniforms away until he was left in his sweat soaked underclothes, staring at the day’s odor on his body. He wandered into the kitchen, downing a quarter of a bottle of whiskey before he went to the bathroom, bumping into Stiles on the way. His inner thoughts were only interrupted when Stiles bumped into him before he made some offhand comment about how dirty he was or how much he smelled; he wasn’t paying attention. He rarely did when Stiles talked, at least not in the last year or so. But it irked him.

 

John’s tired eyes looked down at the boisterous boy with contempt. He’d recovered so quickly from the death. The benefits of being too young to know better, he assumed. And yet it still lit a spark within him which inflamed an anger he didn’t know he had for his boy. He wished he could lash out, shout down at the kid about how he didn’t have time to shower when he was too busy providing for the selfish little---

 

But he had a better idea. “That’s why you’re here, kiddo,” he sneered. His words were slurred, but clear. 

 

“You’re gonna get daddy nice and clean. Don’t you wanna be usef-help daddy?”


	2. Do Your Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff starts on a dark path and decides he's never going back.

That day was the best the Sheriff had ever had since his wife died. He’d gripped Stiles by the shoulder, his gaze glassy yet filled with mischief. The kid was naturally confused as his father led him to back into the bedroom but he went willingly enough. The Sheriff hadn’t quite broken him yet -- that would come later. For now, John simply led his son back to the pile of clothes he’d left on the floor at the foot of his bed, sitting down heavily where he’d been earlier while Stiles undressed him. He placed the kid right between his legs, standing practically at eye level with him. He gripped his young son’s cheeks with more strength than he ought to, but he didn’t care in this state. His hold was too firm for Stiles to recoil from the alcohol in his breath as he spoke.

 

“You think Daddy stinks huh? Think I like to get to get all dirty and live like a work horse? I’m out there sweating for you, to feed you. And this is the thanks I get.” John had to bite his lip to keep from cursing. He wouldn’t let his anger control him now, not right before he got taught him his lesson. “Well I think you ought to appreciate me a bit more. Me and my stink.”

 

As he spoke, John reached down, picking up the uniform shirt from where it lie in a pile. Fortunately for Stiles -- or unfortunately for John; he wasn’t sure yet -- the stains under the sleeves had dried somewhat in the last hour or so, but the day spent laboring and sweating in the desert had taken its toll. He found the center of that damp crescent and, gripping the back of Stiles’ head tightly, probably too tightly, he held the shirt right under the kid’s nose. There was a smirk splitting his face and a fiery glint in his eye that hadn’t shown itself since before his wife was sick. He wasn’t quite sure what it was (he’d come to identify it as power later that night) but something about this made him feel strong, whole again. 

 

“How’s that, huh? Still wanna bi-complain? You’ve no idea what I do for you, for us all day do you? Well don’t worry kiddo, Daddy’s gonna teach you. You’re gonna learn,” John spit the words at him as he forced the sweat soaked undershirt deeper into Stiles’ face. It wasn’t until he took in the confusion, the disgust, but most importantly, the obedience in Stiles’ eyes that he felt himself twitch in his uniform pants.

 

For a few moments, time stood still for John. He thought about what he was doing, the way he was hurting his son, the way he was getting aroused from it. He knew this was all wrong, so horribly immoral. And when he thought of Claudia...he nearly stopped himself from going forward. Until he kept thinking of Claudia, kept thinking of all the work he’d put into this family and this kid and he was filled with a sick sense of underappreciation. He would be appreciated. He would be worshipped.

 

Removing the shirt from Stiles’ face, John almost felt disappointed; but he knew what was coming. That wolfish grin returned to his face as he looked down into his son’s eyes; he’d be easy enough to manipulate, considering how many times he’d seen grown adults suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. John could be so lucky to have Stiles behave in such a way. He tossed the shirt as his hands moved to cradle Stiles by the cheeks, feigning gentleness with his son. 

 

“Now boy, you wanna respect your Daddy right? Make him feel good, say thank you for all he does?” As his son nodded eagerly, John felt another press against his zipper and his smile grew. “Good boy. Now you see, daddy doesn’t like coming home dirty all the time either. But that’s what happens when I provide for you. If i didn’t you’d be miserable. But...I think you should be paying me back don’t you?”

 

Stiles’ mumbled “yes daddy” nearly caused John’s sick heart to burst with joy. “Good. Then you’re gonna get me clean, like always. But you gotta step up now.”

 

And with that, John unceremoniously gripped his son once again by the back of his head, hand tangled in his hair as the other arm lifted to reveal his hairy underarm. Admittedly he’d slacked on the self hygiene but he usually brushed away any concerns with his own hyper masculinity or his preoccupation with his wife’s death. Now he was grateful he’d slacked off a bit. 

 

“Tongue out,” the Sheriff grumbled. He barely gave Stiles time to react before he pushed his face in, sighing as he felt the softness of the kid’s lips against his skin. “And breathe deep. It’ll help you to appreciate everything your father does for you.” John barked, a devilish grin on his face.

 

After only a minute or two, John felt boredom settle in. He couldn’t have that; taking his hand off Stiles’ head, he flicked the television on to the nightly news before he started to shift. Now he could easily hold Stiles in place by his hair as he shuffled up his bed to recline comfortably. He sighed deeply as he reclined on his bed, his boy’s tongue still hesitantly lapping at his pit. The kid had been very slow on the uptake but John liked to think the scent had overwhelmed him, convinced him of his place in their house. 

 

At the next commercial break, after about ten minutes of forcing his son’s head into his own sweaty armpit, John knew it was time to move on and it would take a gradual increase in intensity. When he pulled Stiles back to face him, his smirk returned. The kid had a hair stuck to his tongue, his lips were red and plump and raw, and his face was flushed with the heat. He loved the sight of the kid so debauched, so overwhelmed by the Sheriff’s masculinity.

 

“That was a good job, boy. Real good job. I’m so proud of you,” he crooned with false affection. It did its job though; Stiles’ face lit up and his smile came back slowly as he was reassured. Silly little kid. “But you’re not done yet. Daddy’s got another pit you know. Shouldn’t you be helping him?” And with that John raised both arms, placing them behind his head. “Get to it.” he said before turning back to the television, waiting for his desired reaction.  
It only took a minute before his grin returned, as he felt Stiles dive head first into the ripe underarm he’d revealed. The kid’s tongue was moving faster now, covering a greater area. John had succeeded in convincing him this was where he belonged.

 

As he revelled in the feeling of his son’s tongue against the interior of his armpit, he felt himself tumble permanently down a dark path. He would never go back. This was too good. In fact, he was running headfirst down that path, eager to see what else he could get away with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Hope you enjoyed. Sorry it took so long for me to update, I've been swamped this week. As always, let me know what you thought in the comments. If you have any suggestions/requests, feel free to ask in the comments or hit me up at touchkissbite-ao3.tumblr.com.


	3. Convenience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins to push the limits for his own convenience -- or pleasure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Hope you all enjoy. Once again, please let me know any suggestions/requests you have for this or for future stories/drabbles/one-shots. Enjoy!

It was about two months later that John began to grow tired of their new game. Every day after work, John would return home to find Stiles eagerly awaiting a chance to say thank you and prove himself. He still turned his nose up at the smell and brushed his teeth afterwards but John had tied his approval too closely to the cleanup process for Stiles to deny him. It was addicting for the Sheriff as well, spending all day working up a sweat knowing his boy would be forced to clean it all up and suffer with it. John eve began working out again. His muscles were becoming as firm as they were before his wife got sick, even if he still looked every bit as middle aged as he was. But that was when it was still all about power. Then came convenience.

 

There were many days when John would find he’d have to interrupt their sessions to go to the bathroom or answer the phone; he hated those days. He only got an hour before he had nothing left for Stiles to do and would release him, but if he got up too soon or left Stiles alone for too long, the kid would get too excited or distracted for him to resume the task at hand. One day John decided he didn’t want to stop. 

 

They’d been on his bed as usual, arms stretched back behind John’s head, Stiles’ face buried in John’s underarm, and the Sheriff pleasantly drunk on whiskey when he felt that familiar press against his clothed erection that meant he would need to take a break. But he’d prepared for this. Instead of drunkenly tossing the bottle aside, John had held on tight to the container, knowing it held the perfect solution. And when he lowered both arms and Stiles sat back on his heels beside him, John smirked with the knowledge that the kid wasn’t going anywhere. 

“Don’t get too comfortable kid. Daddy’s just gotta take care of some business.” Any other day he might have turned over or found some privacy in his own room. But on this day, drunk and filled with the hazy pleasure of being serviced, John couldn’t keep himself from simply fumbling with his zipper before he drew his now semi-soft cock from his boxers (he’d forgone pants weeks ago). He was drunk not only on his alcohol but on the power and the ego boost these sessions gave him; the way Stiles’ eyes widened in shock, his lips hung open in a perfect O, the intrigue in his eyes: it drove John over the edge.

“See something interesting Stiles? Maybe one day you’ll be a man like me and have a cock as impressive as mine. S’not very likely, but maybe,” With that John laughed at his son’s crestfallen face and turned his attention back to his full bladder.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The next day, when John and Stiles settled on the bed for their afternoon fun, John was quick to pull his quickly hardening cock from his boxers and place an empty water bottle on the bedside table beside him before settling back with his bottle, and his cleaning service -- his son. He didn’t think it was likely that life could get better. He’d spend at least an hour every day after work rewarding himself with his son’s dutiful licking and sniffing of his pits until he was nearly dizzy on the fumes from John’s body, his eyes on the television, and the freedom to let loose whenever he felt like it. He’d never be disturbed now.

 

About two weeks later, things changed again.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Stiles had been good about the new change. John didn’t expect a kid to feel totally comfortable about seeing his father’s dick while he pissed every day, but he also wouldn’t expect a kid to be so easily manipulated into licking his father’s armpits. After a few days, Stiles would simply sit back and watch in awe, mouth wide open as John’s impressive cock (eleven thick inches as he would brag to Stiles) let loose. For John it was all about the power and convenience (for now); but for Stiles, he was quickly growing to revere his father as the most perfect man he had ever seen, the ultimate symbol of masculinity -- which John was quick to remind Stiles, he was not.

 

Thus, there were no issues for the time being. Not until one day when Stiles got a bit too rambunctious. When he had been ordered around the bed to settle into John’s other armpit, around the 35 minute mark, he’d bounded over so quickly, so nervous to please his father before he did something wrong, that the bed shook, knocking against the bedside table and sending the whiskey bottle tumbling off the edge. Before either could react, it was in a handful of pieces (the fall was thankfully not high enough to completely shatter it) on the hardwood floor. 

 

John hadn’t roared with anger or taken his annoyance out on Stiles; instead he reacted even worse. Stiles watched with fear his his father stared silently down at the bottle, eyebrows furrowed in anger like gathering storm clouds. The boy cowered as he spoke, only to be surprised by his words. “Get back to work.” Stiles was shocked he was so patient and understanding; it only served to intensify his feelings of admiration for his father. Meanwhile, behind those dark eyes, his father was plotting.

 

Only a few minutes after the bottle broke, the Sheriff spoke again. 

 

“You know son, you’ve been doing a good job of pleasing me recently. Of course, you’ll never fully pay me back, but it’s a nice try. But I don’t think it’s enough. I mean you’re still misbehaving, clearly,” he pointed to the bottle as he spoke and although Stiles’ head came up to reply with an excuse, John pushed him back down to his armpit with force. “Plus, I could use deodorant and you wouldn’t even be needed. I mean, you can’t expect me to think you’re really trying if you’re just an object do you? But if you helped me out more, you might be able to make a dent in that debt you owe me.”

 

John knew some would call it cruel, but he knew how to manipulate his son. He knew he could play on his desire to please him and appease the father he admired so much. And underneath that all, John was itching to try this out for a while now; Stiles’ misbehavior was simply the catalyst. “I think I’ve got a new job for you Stiles.” It was sick, absolutely twisted. John had put away enough perverts to know he himself would be sickened by such behavior; not anymore though. Now, the idea of manipulating his son even further only got his cock harder.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Stiles had protested, naturally. He didn’t understand, didn’t think it was sanitary. John fixed that soon enough though. With a glowering look and some harsh words, Stiles’ lips opened up, bumping against the head of John’s cock every time he shook with nervous energy. John didn’t notice that he had tears building in his eyes though; he was much more enthralled by what he was about to do. He’d started slow, allowing a few slow streams to cross over Stiles’ lips and allowing him time to swallow -- the gagging stopped soon enough. He was done in about five minutes but it was something he’d remember for the rest of his life.

 

Stiles, so eager to please and face so debauched from his earlier service, on his knees at the edge of the bed where John sat between John’s hair dusted legs, the impressive cock proudly sticking straight up from the curly hair in his groin right in front of Stiles’ face; his lips were open in that perfect O-shape as John’s piss flowed smoothly between them for a few moments; his mouth was full when John would swipe his thumb across Stiles’ jaw where his hand lay (he liked the idea he was essentially flushing him); the process would repeat three or four times before John felt he was empty enough to lie back and resume their previous activities. And he barely had to move a muscle.

 

Now, about two months, after the initial incident, the Sheriff had Stiles regularly buried in his armpits and drinking from his cock. But there always comes a day when it is not enough for him.

 

After an hour or so, John would always remember the real world outside his bedroom and, with a sigh, tell Stiles they were done for the day. But now that he’d extended their activities, he could never quite shake them from his mind. Even when he went to the bathroom alone now, he dreamed of Stiles’ mouth around him or drinking it down. And so he resolved to fix it.

 

The first time he called Stiles into the bathroom, right after dinner, he looked to be innocently unaware, but John could see the understanding in his son’s eyes; even then he was a smart kid. John simply beckoned him over with a finger and a smirk, waiting till Stiles settled on his knees nervously, eye level with his father’s cock and the porcelain toilet behind him. The idea of his son doing his duty to his father, acting as an object just because he knew it would please John, made the soft cock twitch. But that’s not what he was here for, the Sheriff thought, as the piss began to flow.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

A week after he began taking all of John’s piss, Stiles could take an entire round without pause as his father taught him how to swallow with his mouth open. Two weeks after that, Stiles would find his father removing water bottles from his work bag, filled with amber liquid that his smirking father would claim were his to keep. When his face wasn’t confronted with the daunting task of cleaning his father’s armpits, they were staring down his father’s daily bathroom breaks. The wonderful part -- for John -- was that Stiles seemed eager enough to do it. While he couldn’t see the disgust and discomfort his son pushed felt, he saw a boy willing to drink his father’s urine with dinner just to keep him happy, satisfied. John saw this and he used it, abused it. 

 

He knew it wasn’t right when he began to piss freely without a hand to grip his cock, just because he knew it would cause the stream to slip over Stiles’ lips and face, or force him to connect his mouth to John’s cockhead to catch every drop. He knew it was only causing more work for Stiles when he convinced him it would be more fun for the both of them if he could piss freely, aiming wherever he liked on Stiles for a laugh. Stiles shyly chuckled along with his father as he was happy to see him happy; but he wasn’t laughing as he washed his hair in the sink just to keep the piss from drying in it.

 

Nevertheless, John knew his way around the boy’s mind. He knew how to play this game. His words were convincing enough for Stiles to always be ready and eager and, most importantly, willing to please; but he was silent just enough that he could still sit back and watch with sick joy as his son balked at the taste of his piss or picked hairs from his lips, or flinched at the piss dripping down his face. After all, Stiles may be his new toilet, his replacement for a bar of soap, but his enjoyment wasn’t in using an object, it was in using his son as one.


End file.
